Templars, Pie and Pretty Girls
by Sabreene
Summary: A short arising from an Anders prompt on BSN - just how does Anders rate the templars? Takes place during Awakening while the companions are enjoying some R&R at a tavern, and are rudely interrupted.


_Author's Note:_ This little piece arose from a prompt on the Anders thread (on BSN). It was an hour-prompt, so is not as heavily edited as usual, although I fixed a few errors just now as I read it through. The Warden in the story is Iseult Cousland, from my _Of Warriors and Assassins_ story.

* * *

"Ahh, this is the life," Anders said, resting his feet on the chair opposite him with a loud, satisfied thump. "I could get used to this. So maybe we die a horrible death in twenty years but today…" his voice trailed off as a buxom serving girl set down a large slice of pie in front of him with a lingering smile.

"Today?" Iseult prompted.

"What?" Anders asked, obviously not listening as he looked around for cutlery he didn't have. Iseult sighed, and passed hers along to him.

"Oh, but don't you…" Anders began, as the girl brought another slice of pie for Iseult and a huge tankard of ale for Oghren.

"I can wait, go ahead," she replied. She didn't have to tell Anders twice, who already had a bite of pie halfway to his mouth as she finished the sentence.

"You don't want that back, you don't know where the mage's mouth has been," Oghren swayed a little as he stood, fumbling at something on his belt.

"Better places than yours, no doubt," Anders said, around another mouthful of pie.

"Heh. Not if you were squealing the nug last night with that elf friend of yours." They all turned to look at where the elf in question sat now, glowering at all of them from the corner. "She's uglier than my mother-in-law with a two day shadow."

A guilty flush spread across Anders face, "She wanted to make things up to me, for the bad information she gave last year."

With a small grunt, Oghren finally detached what he'd been working at from his belt. He slammed a tarnished silver spoon down onto the table. "There. Take mine." He waved his hands in protest before Iseult could say anything, "No need to thank me."

Iseult pushed the spoon away from the vicinity of her pie. "I won't."

Oghren nodded as if satisfied, and then began to weave his way through the tables towards where Sigrun and Nate were arm-wrestling. He paused, pointing toward the doorway.

"Bad information she gave you _last_ year?" Oghren chortled, and then continued on towards the arm-wrestlers, sloshing ale as he went.

Anders froze, mid-bite. His eyes flicked toward where Namaya sat, but she was gone.

"They can't do anything," Iseult said, but her hand had fallen below the table to rest on the hilt of her sword.

"What if they know we killed Rylock?" murmured Anders.

"So what if they do?" Iseult's eyes narrowed with an almost hungry look. A slight scraping of metal rasped as she drew her dagger and lay it nonchalantly on the table next to her pie.

Anders heaved a put-upon sigh, "I _liked_ this place."

"You liked the last place, too."

"Yes, but we can't go there anymore," he gave a direct look at her dagger glinting in the flickering candlelight. "And this place has pie. And pretty serving girls."

"And templars," Iseult added with a feral grin, as the three heavily clad armored men walked up to their table. He'd never seen anyone become so gleeful at the prospect of a fight. "Gentlemen," she nodded to them, her eyes flicking from one to the other. Anders knew she would be calculating just where to strike to bring each one down.

"You've got a mage with you," the first one said to Iseult, ignoring Anders, as if he were her pet. He obviously considered himself the leader of the bunch, being the tallest, with white streaks peppering his black hair. "We will need to take him in."

"Very observant," Anders replied before Iseult could. "What gave it away? The robes? Or the staff? Or was it just the blinding aura of power I give off?"

The head templar glanced at him disdainfully with large, watery blue eyes. "You're wearing robes," he stated.

"Again, points for observation. But I could be a merchant who just happened to be wearing robes. What if it was laundry day and I didn't have anything else to wear? Would I be a mage then?"

"You'd be a merchant," said the second one at the same time as the third said, "A merchant wouldn't have robes!" in an appalled voice.

"You have a staff," their leader said.

"Ah, so if one wears a robe and carries a staff, they must be a mage."

"Yes."

"You're so witty, I give you a 4."

"A four of what?" said the third one, suspiciously. He looked more bar-brawler than templar, with a mace hanging at his belt rather than a sword.

"Enough of this," said the tall templar, with a supercilious tone of command, "You already said you were a mage."

"Did I?"

The second templar, a man with a very stocky, wide body and an uncommonly thin neck, leaned forward to whisper into his leader's ear. He looked nervously to where Iseult sat polishing her dagger, his head almost seeming to bobble.

Finally the stout man said, more a question than a statement, "You implied it. You will have to come with us."

"Imply! Such an astute word!" Anders shook his head in mock sorrow towards the watery-eyed templar, "I think he might beat you in points. And I'm sorry, I can't go with you. I don't know who you are, and my _Commander_ here has told me several times to never play with strangers," he smiled, leaning back in his chair.

Iseult snickered, "Especially not strangers who want to tie you up, not after what happened last time.

At the mention of "Commander" the leader straightened, pulling himself into what was actually a very impressive height. His eyes roved over Iseult, taking in her well-worn scale armor, the calluses on her hands, the loving way in which she polished her dagger.

"See, I just can't go with you. Although I'm sure we'd have a lot of fun. You might try that man over there, I overhead him saying he was looking for companionship for the night."

The third templar's neck reddened with anger, the nostrils of his at-least-twice-broken nose flaring. "We don't… you…disgusting…" he stuttered, furious.

"I think they're upset," said Iseult.

"I know he doesn't possess my charm and beauty, but he does look quite flexible." Anders looked at Iseult, and they both nodded in agreement.

"He does, I wouldn't discount him so fast, boys."

"We are templars!" the third one finally thundered, his oft-beaten face twisting in outrage.

"I don't know," Anders raised an eyebrow, "I think you may be farmers. Did you steal that armor? You better give it back, the real templars are going to be very angry when they find themselves with no clothes."

The bobble-headed templar placed a tentative hand on the hilt of his sword, looking from Anders and Iseult to his companions uncertainly. The leader just stood, his watery eyes implacable as he put a hand out to stop bluster-boy from charging the table.

"You think you're so smart, I'll show you smart!" the third templar snarled from behind his leader's arm.

"Really? And I don't even have to say please? How very kind. Did you bring it with you? Because I don't see smart anywhere in your vicinity. In fact, I think your score just dropped below zero. Such a sad, sad comeback. It's like you're not even trying," he shook his head and turned to Iseult. "What do you think, _Warden Commander_?"

The second templar blanched and then slid to the side at the mention of her title, as if he could hide his broad body behind his companions.

Iseult shook her head, "He really lacks originality. I'd give him a -2."

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" the man blustered, drawing his mace.

"Only if by 'stupid' you mean someone who is so mentally slow that petty violence is the only form of expression they can understand. Then, yes."

The man stared at him with his squished eyes, his jaw jutting out further than Anders thought possible. Then a look of fury washed over his face, his skin reddening to the receding line of his hair. Anders wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rising around him. He raised his mace, pushing past the leader to rush the table. He made one step before he stopped, the point of Iseult's sword resting against his jugular.

The tavern stilled, making the sound of Nate's bow and Sigrun's unsheathing of blades loud in the large room. A drop of blood ran down the unfortunate templar's neck. Anders could see the tight reign Iseult kept on herself, knowing she would love nothing more than to test her skills against these trained men. She'd been doing nothing but slaying ill-prepared bandits for weeks.

Their so-called leader made a hesitant clearing of his throat. "You're… the Warden Commander? Of Ferelden? And Amaranthine?"

"I am. And I promise you, I'm not just wearing her clothes," she gave a wicked smile.

"And you…" he turned towards Anders, who now held his staff lazily in his hand, his feet still propped up on a chair.

"Anders. Also a Warden, and yes, a mage."

"Anders!" The second templar squeaked, "She didn't say it was Anders!"

"Shut up!" snarled the bar-brawler, now moving back a few paces, out of the reach of Iseult's sword. He glanced warily around, his red face going pale as he saw the mad, grinning face of Oghren with Nate's stern, scowling face behind him, bow ready to be drawn.

"My apologies," the leader said, also backing away, but keeping his superior attitude firmly in place. "We received some poor information. We had word an apostate frequented this tavern, not that…

"Grey Wardens!" the second templar interjected, looking as if he thought Grey Wardens ate babies for breakfast.

The leader shot a dirty glance behind him, and continued, "Not that the mage in question was a Grey Warden." His mouth turned down in disgust, as if he'd just bit in to a rotten, mushy piece of fruit. "Greagoir has given firm orders that you are to be left alone."

"Then I guess you'll be going? Unless you'd like to sit down and have a piece of pie with us. They have delicious pie. And quite comely serving girls. Though none quite as lovely as our Commander, don't you think?" he slung an arm about Iseult's waist.

The leader drew himself into a precise military stance. "None of you will be so lovely in twenty years, from what I've heard."

"Ooo, ouch! Okay, I'll raise you to a 7, just for that comment alone."

"Enjoy your pie," the templar said, turning on his heel and ushering his companions back toward the door.

Iseult pushed his arm from her. "The things I do for you," she complained.

"You love me, just admit it, it'll be easier for all of us," Anders smirked.

"Shut up and eat your pie," Iseult replied, but he'd already finished his pie and was now reaching for hers. She slapped his hand away. "There shouldn't be rumors going around about our twenty year life span. Someone is talking."

Anders wasn't listening; he was signaling the serving girl. As she sashayed over, hips swinging and fresh slice of pie in hand, he smiled and repeated his earlier thought. "So in twenty years we die, maybe horribly. Everyone is going to die someday, maybe horribly. Not everyone has today," he gestured around expansively, encompassing everything. "Life is good."

"Not everyone has their own spoon," she pointed out dryly, as he began on his new slice and she was left with Oghren's much-abused utensil.

"I'd share," Anders smiled, holding out a bite of pie for her to eat.

"I'll pass," Iseult replied.

"Your loss. I'd be quite happy to share pie with you," he said with a raised eyebrow.

"You'd be quite happy to share pie with anyone."

"Only because you never let me share with you."

"Shut up and eat your pie," she repeated.

Anders laughed, and watching her, he ate his pie. Slowly.


End file.
